About The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907 | View Entire Issue (Jan. 22, 1887)
THE SU?mr SOUTH, ATLANTA, QA, SATURDAY MORNI5Q, JANUABY 22, 1887. THE CROSS AND RING. BY MRS. E. WARREN ERDELMYER. CHAPTER VII. The wide blue heavens, the full moon, in it’s tailUancv eclipsing the myriad of stare, robbed them of their sparkling glitter, and spread the combined, softened glow on the garden pic ture. Music floated dreamily through the ^“Wbatialone, Estelle*” said Armand, who, arm in arm with Bert, paused before her. 4 My own choice,’’ she answered, a nervously, for her reverie had been painful, and she felt conscious of a shame in the pain ahe bad been unable to suppress. “Why so?” said Armand, gently. “The evening is so perfect, and the music charming. I wanted to enjoy it without the marring effects of conversation. ^And you stole away to yourself-selfish. Tour asylum is well selected to avoid intru- aions. I wonder we discovered you herein the shadows.’’ tSl»k» g r” continued **?Au < unfnir question," Mid Bert, nt lent, in a measured tone. The sadi ess of it touched Estelle. •‘Perhaps; but I do not mind telling it, she “I can guess,” said Armand, smiling. A girl’s own dreams.” Her voice faltered as she answered: “You are wrong; such dreams are of love and marriage. Pshaw! as if the supreme end in life was to love, to ms rry, and to die. Why should love be perpetually on the lips of the Toune’ the day dreams of females whea it is toe emptiest of all dreams-a chimera; and marriage, to which such dreams always tend, is worse—a bitter disappointment.” “My very wise cousin, then, you were study- ine physical nature, not the human emotions. Tell us the subject proper of your medita- think I was trying to fathom the purpose of my own existence—wondering why 1 was born.” Her voice dropped into a weariness of *°“A law of nature—you had to be. That was soon answered. “What next?” asked Armand. „ , , “You ov rlooked the first—the purpose of my own existence. I wish I understood things a little clearer.” “A wa: te of thought. Who can understand clearly ? The world is a medley; it hangs to gether after a fashion—a very good lasluon, by the way, 1 toms, independent of our curi ^“Somet ines I think I could lift the veil, by a strong effort, and see what is beyond fc r me to do and to endure.” The last word vibrated with suppressed pain. At that moment Aimand was called. Bert seated himself beside her. A long silence fell between them; yet it was not sympathy with the silent scene of beauty, or with the passion of the music that engross ed them. A weight of shame was bowing 1 im down; the barrier between them had risen higher and was frozen into perpetual ice. The yearning for sympathy, the comfort of one word or look of tender compassion in his misery almost overpowered him. The pitiable confession of all his past trembled in his breaet. , . But what use? It wonld only be a paini to her if she cared for him, and a death in life to him if she could not forgive and feel the sympathy for which his heart ached. “Miss DeRive, are you slow to forgive? Is it difficult to you to pardon a t ansgressor. His tone dioppeJ to a tremulous whisper. “I depends upon the nature of the offense.” “I do not mean an offense against yourself Then forgiveness would hot be required of ““I’ardon me. Suppose a friend, who had ■uccumbed to temptations, and was guilty of an offens) against human and divine laws, craved your forgiveness as the best earthly oomfort to a sore, accusing conscience, could ^°H^could*inot see her face in the shade and iha was silent. . Closing her li||tfpnlbr< “ber^lL sigh of pain, sheT~)Ugbf. had no baked nera few days before, Vhe could have answered with a tender sympathy and sincere forgi /e- ness. Then, Hhe knew of but the one false step, retracted ere the deed was fully commit ted, the u emory of it had abided with her, a regret. But his noble reform and silent peni tence, so evident to her since, ban won his pardon from her heart. She cou d have won his confidence, comforted him, accepted his love, and been supremely happy, for she had beet waiting lovingly for the otter of it. But now, this woman, this beautiful Coun tess, what was she to him? If he had loved her once she was too beautiful and wonderfully attractive not to revive in him the old passion; and he could be nothing now to herself. Then, what more wrongs aud sins were cov ered in his past? A distrust unconquerable possessed her. “What o’clock is it!” “A quarter to ten.” The voice questioning was that of the (_ oun- 1'he answer was from her escort, as the two passed by the shadow-veiled rustic sofa, whereon Bert and Estelle were seated A bright moonbeam penetrating the vine leaves at i hat instant fell across both their faces, and revealed to her his sudden start aud compressed lips. Their eyes met. . Pain reproach, and scorn shone in hers. She did not know that the impassioned ap peal in his meant love for herself. She deemed it the overwhelming passion for another man s wife, and her face hardened; there was not toe faintest pity in it. He saw it and shivered. Crushing back the words of confession which agaip, with almost unconquerable force, rush ed to his lips, he said despairingly: “Forgive me. that, I have dared even to know you. Your kind friendship tendered to me has been a saving power. But fate will not suffer me to be good. My destiny pursues me. .Farewell”’ A wave of pity swept over her. 4 ‘You saved my life. 1 cannot forget that she said, itruggling to be calm. “There is so much 10 weigh against it; you must forget it, too-yes, forget even that l ever existed. ” He fell on his knees at her feet and kissed the flowers she held, and a tear dropped on the hand which enclosed the flower stems. He was gone, and she was alone again. She never knew how long she remained there in t he hidden arbor. Her face was pressed to the flowers he bad h-mm! , her lips wiping away the tear he had left on her hand. “It must be love—love for herself.” throb bed in her brain; and she had let him go with out t word. This countess might be nothing to him now. She held him in her power somehow, perhaps by some dread secret of the past—nothing more. “Oh, love, my love! if you had but told me alt—l could, I would forgive ” But he was gone l CHAPTER VIIL With rapii strides Adalbert reached the clump of willows, the appointed place for the secret rendezvous of the countess and himself. The bank was steep where he paused, wait- ing. He held one hand to his convulsed heart to still the anguished throbs, so intense that.it shook his frame with physical pain. He had bid farewell to the last joy on earth -—the tender, sympathetic woman who had won him from ruin. The wolnan of a lovely idealized beauty ef mind and person, with the wand of strange influence possessed by some souls for good over evil, in whom he had found a mysterious kinship of soul, which had revealed to him hidden gifts of beauty and truth within his own being. His love for her was pure and sacred, it had stirred the very depths of his nature. He lov ed her with all the intensity and positiveness which is rarely felt save by a nature of the broadest capacity to love Dobly, truly, and rarely the outgrowth of other than a heart, by instinct, great and true. Oh, the torture of that last look of here! the . look of bitter reproach and scorn. He shiv ered with the icy chill it left in his heart. Now he was here wailing for the woman •who had been his ruin. He shuddered with the revulsion of feeling —shuddered to think that he had once 1 ived her with a mad passion—this evil treacherous creature! Her beauty, in its wild glory with bewitch ing arts had glamoured bis eyes, absorbed his senses—but his inner, true nature, his better self lull* d ti sleep by intoxication had never prostrated itsell at her unholy shrine. In a tumult of self-a icusation and despair his soul cried out pitiably: “God help me!” The awful responsibility about to fall upon him in this new crisis faced him. The minute approached. He knew she would come with the view to cajole him into silence—knew that should he sho x pity and leave her undisturbed in her rich, wicked career, that many lives, ruined, might in the dim future call on his soul for vengeance. The rustling of silk skirts on the grass caught his listening ear. He turi>ed his face from the river and looked down on her as she stopped in front of him. She di ew closer and laid her hand on the back of his that was folded with the other across his breast. The touch of that hand, small and soft as a child’s sent a Bhivering chill through him. Shaki ig it off brusquely, he spoke in a sub dued voice, vibrating with the intensity of his feeling: “Speait, and be brief; I am here at yonr bidding to hear what you may have to say.” “Our interview can be very brief if you are merciful, Bert. By our love in the past, I De- seech you, Bert, do not betray me now. It can do you no good, and would be my ruin; spare me!" “You dare to appeal to that madness, call ing it love. W iman, the very memory of it is a disgust insufferable, a torture to me now: and since, you have been guilty of a deed more foul than your betrayal of me. How dare you hope to hold the position into which, by your matchless arts, you have elevated yourself through infamous deceptions.’’ His words came slowl in a tone, the icy sternness of which held out no hope of tender ness or pity. She dashed aside her hair with a movement of unreined rage—her eyes glittered and dila ted—yet she crushed back, with indominabe force, the wild words of defiance parting her lips, and stooping suddenly, she pretended to be looking for something she had dropped. “What is it you are li oking for?” “My watch, it fell from ny belt.” Un-uspecting he bent his body close to the ground in search of it among the grass leaves. In an instant she had risen stealthily, and in her hand a short sharp pointed dirk glistened. With a cry of pain he sprung up. It was as the agony of the asp’s sting. “Wretch!’’ catching her by the wrist. “Would you add murder to your wicked deeds?” “You defied your fate—the deed is done!” And she laughed low and mockingly. The frantic pain in the back of his neck stag gered him. Unconsciously he fell back to the brii k of .he river bank, mumbling in pain: "Your stroke was too light—a mere—scratch —ana—” “A scratch that will kill,” she answered de risively. “The blade point is poisoned,” she hissed in defiant triumph. Sue dropped the dagger behind her, and with a i apid movement—unexpected to him— she pushed him backward. A splash and momentary struggle, and all was as silent as the grave. “His blood will be fired through aid through with the poison ere he can reach a bank by the boldest swimming which he could ascend. He brought it on himself,” she muttered through her teeth, and felt a savage joy as she picked up the little weapon and threw it into the river. There was a faint f plash which assured her that the tell-tale dirk was safe in the depth’s of the great river. With swift steps she fled back to the house. The music in the garden had ceased. A short while after, Armand stood leaning against the door, looking on at the dancing as couple after couple whirled by in the maze of bewildering enjoyment. His eyes rested in a strange fas cination on the c mntess, whote beaming smiles, winning words, entrancing voice and radiant glances were doing the work of en chantment. It was t> Armand the fasc nation of an unaccountable sensation—a vague sense of fear and wizardry. A vivid flash revived in hip menu ry the scene of the horse’s mad flighV; aqd Bert’s narrow escape. Again he stemed to. see the quick surreptitious switch of her tiny whip—a light almost plaj ed stroke— which had come so near being the murder of a human life and the death of a noble beast. He drew a sharp inward breath involuntarily. At that moment the countess’ rad ant eyes met his intent, fascinated gaze, and she smiled curiously. What was there in that smile that touched him with a cold thrill of horror? He turned away abruptly and went in search of Estelle; but nowhere in the room could he find her. Could it be that she and Bert were still in the arbor? He was glad they had had the opportunity of a long private interview. There was no sound of voices as he approached that part of the garden. lit- entered the arbor. Estelle was aline. She was so still that for some moments he failed to discover her in the shadows. At the sound of his voice calling her name, Estelle star'ed to her feet guiltily. “Where is Bert?” he asked. “I do not know.” “Did you send him away for anything?” “No.” “When did he leave you?” “I do not remember. I think a very few minutes after you left us.” He drew her hand within his arm, kindly, anxiously, and conducted her to her own room. “I will tell them al that yon are over-fa tigued and have retired,” he said with a gen tle, sympathetic emphasis, and kissing her good-night, left h'-r. Armand sat a long while, after the dancing was over, smoking and waiting for Bert. They had occupied the same room. “Where can the fellow have gone to at this hour of the night?” he wondered, impatiently consulting Ins watch. Two o’clock aud every soul in the house had retired but himself. Finally he repaired to his own room He opened the window, peering out in the moon light and listening for Bert's footsteps. “He must be tramping somewhere in the grounds in a desperate lovesickne-s. Armand thought, smilingly; then with a frown, he re membered the effect on Bert of the Countess’ sudden appearance among them. Was it that an old passion had revived in him and in a nice sense of honor he had confided it to Es telle? “He should have been quite sure of the death of an old love ere he dared to interest another woman in himself,” and with angry fretfulness Armand dashed his cigar to the rround and retired He tossed in restless sleep; broken dreams, fragments of strange events, confusion, dismay, death, blood, drowning, and difficulties in which he vainly struggled to extricate both himself and others were the tortures of this nightmare sleep. In all these dread scenes and trials, Bert, Estelle and the Countess figured prominently. He would start with a smothered cry of hor ror or distress and awake, only to fall asleep again to go over the same dreams. In the waking intervals the thought of the Countess in connection with the accident to the horse aud buggy would persistently come to his mind with increasing suspicions. Did she mean to do it? What had been their rela tions in the past? Did she fear Bert with a dread great enough to cause her, not only to wish for his death, but to try to get him out of her way in so horrible a manner? Was she a wicked woman, bold, daring, ca pable of a crime? CHAPTER IX. Armand arose at dawn. He could sleep no more with the terrible apprehensions that had taken hold of him with a mysterious power. He could scarcely distinguish his dreams from waking thoughts and with a nervousness he had never felt before he lighted a cigar and left the house. He strolled out to the river bank and seated himself on the grass-covered levee to watch the eastern sky. As the sun-glow deepened the brightness of the deep blue, giltedged sky hurt his eyes, and he let them descend to the river at his feet. Suddenly, a little butch of young willows attracted his attention; they were growing at the edge of the water on a tiny little sand is land, under tte bluff bank beyond him, in the curve of the stream. A black object waved gently among the graceful willow-tops. It was swinging from the main brance, and looked like a man’s hat. Armand caught his breath sharply. A powerful monition made him shiver. He went to the bluff, and stretching himself flat on the grass peered cautiously over toe edge. Further on, where the bank was sloping, he saw a fishing pole with one end stui k in the eart h and a line dropping from the point into the river. It took but. a few minutes to secure this long cane pole. Returning with it, he succeeded in reaching and drawing up on its sharp point the black object he had discovered. It was a man’s hat; unmistakably Adalbert Ros8ebeme’s hat. Armand held his breath at the positive dis covery. Had Bert committed the deed himself? Was it suicide? No, no, Bert had been wild—perhaps reck lessly dissipated sometime in his past—he had hinted this more than once to Armand, with deep regret, but he was not a coward to take his own life. Tho countess! “Ha!” Armand started! at the thought and his eyes flashed fire. But he must come to no hasty conclusion; he must think, think well, before allowing his mind to be possessed with so f ital accusation. He looked around searchingly. A fresh break in the earth immediately at the t-dg* of the bluff showed that a recent, minute land-slide had taken place. It was no uncommon thing on this river bank; but this was so very small, as if it had been broken by a body falling from the band into tht river. Armand kne>t down, examining it closely. There was the half of a footprint, the round ed toe point of a boot Evidently the part with the heel impression had caved off alruptly. A little apart the dew-damp grass was pressed down about the space of a man’s foot Armand tried to calm hi aself. If it showed a man’s position in the act of jumping off, or falling, he must have gone over back vards. Was it an accident? There were other little spois with the grass clinging to the ground, as forced bv some pressure, and the sun heat had not yet drawn the grass sprays up to a natural position. A strange intuition, made clear by his vague suspicions i f the day past, instantly persuad ed Armand that these smaller impressions were made by a woman’s feet. Again he laid himself on the ground with his head projecting over the bluff. Fvery spot of earth and eacn root and twig his eyes examined minutely. The river had fallen during the night, and from where the water had receded the bank was so gridual a slope that a wile space of wet sand was left by the night’s fall. What was it glistening in that wet sand which the sun rays, now broadened into full blaze, made tojsparkle like a great brilliant? Armand hastened to get a canoe; and in a short while he had paddled in swiftly to the glittering little object. It was a dirk! the keen pointed blade was not two inches long. On the side of the blade where it began to round toward the point was one stain of blood, faint but visi ble as blot d—like a large drop that the water had touched but a few minutes and failing to wash out had left it to spread as it dried in the sunlight. Strange, there was no evidence of blood or any other part of the blade or hilt, as though i', had been turned aside by some resisting fine fabric, and only penetrated the flesh slightly with one side of the blade near it’s point. At best this tiny weapon could not give a death wound, save through the vital neek- vein. “Ah,” mused Armand with a fresh shudder “the shove into the river from the high bluff accomplished what the dirk in an unstaady, weak hand had failed to do.” Armand cmcealed the dirk in his pocket aDd returned to the place where the affair of whatever character it might have been, had occurred. The hat was a round, narrow brim felt, soft and fine. This Armand folded in x> a small parcel and hid it n his coat pocket. He searched the ground closely as he walk ed back. With a sudden thought he stopped, and re turning midway, walke 1 in the direction of a little gate that led into the lawn—used as a side entrance to the rear grounds of ‘Cocoa Lodge.’ If his suspicions were to be worked up, he thought he must consider the course she was apt to have taken to join Bert on the rivei bank to avoid discovery. It must have been an appointment. She must have prepared herself both with the weapon—to use to an emergency—.sndt-with a Knowledge of die different outlets from the residence toward the river. This little gate beii g the egress from the grass-matted pastire, where no foot prints could be left must have been her choice. She could so easily have stolen out unobserved through one of the quaint unused little piazzas on the side of the dwelling. The shrubbery was dense and would shadow the paths with a deeper darkness from the blinding illumina tions of the front garden Armand soon had cause to congratulate him self on the suggestive thought. Everywhere was matted with the Burmuda grass, save one little bare space at the gate. In this space was a deceptive mud-hole, tinged with green, a green meld that wou d deceive an eye, not knowing the nature of the colored, oily surface, in being taken for short cropped grass. One deep footprint was there, where the foot had been buried in the green mire, and in a difficult extrication from the si icky sub stance had made a wide opening, though re taining the shape of a small boot. He stooped close to the indenture, and seeing something with a faint, brassy tint, he touched it with his cane; it was not earthy, but a hard su> stance. He buried his fingers in the mud be neath it and drew it out. Cleaning it carefully with a bunch of grass, he recognized in it a br iss tip to the heel of a lady’s boot. He wrapped around it a loose letter and put it away also in his pocket, then proceeded to examine the gate. It was as all small gates on plantations, arranged to close itself by means of swinging weights. These weights are usually old worthless pieces oi iron hooks, horse-shoes, and broken wagon iron, which will inevitably catch a lady’s skirts, if, un aware of them, she attempts to go through in haste. This surmise he also found to be a valuable link, for there he discovered, tangled among the weights, a fragment of cloth—a fine, costly fabric, that could belong to none o her than one of the Countess’ rare Paris robes. Not only the fabric itself could be identified, but the rare combination of colors, with gold threads interwoven into tiny mosaic patterns. With a cold, nu-rciless smile Armand smoothed it out against the gate-post. With the wrinkles taken out, it was a piece as large as the palm of his hand, and not in the least despoiled of its rich colors. There was now proof enough of her guilt in his possession, to convict her without a living witness. For a few minutes he leaned against a tree. H s face was very pale, while his lips contracted with the resolve to bring her to jus tice. On his return to the house they were all as sembled at tbe breakfast table. “Where was Rosseberne?” he was asked, as the breakfast hour was closing. He evaded the questions ingeniously, not daring to look at the CouDtess. He feared his eyes might speak to) openly, and she must not detect his horrible suspicions. He shivered as he listened to her melodious voice, for the inquiries about Bert had not dis turbed her conversation by the tlightest in terruption nor the faintest tremor in her voice. Armand furtively observed Estelle. She was looking down, her face pale and a trifle discomposed, a dark rim beneath her eyes evidenced a sleepless night. Immediately after breakfast Armand retired to his own room. There he remained shut up for more than an hour, trying to decide upon a course in this dreaeful affair. His mind was in a tumult. Should he reveal to any one the discoveries he had made, or should he act alone until further enlightened. That Bert had met with foul play he was satisfied. If he had escaped with life he would show up for himself in time; if dtad. there yvould be time enough to search for the body. Finally Armand decided that he would keep his secret ft r the present, and obtain a private interview with the Countess. He would boldly accuse her. It was a fear ful risk but he would do it. He thoughi of her high position and beauty; in appearance she was an exquisitely lovely and tender woman. Was it not impossible for a woman, and such a woman, to be guility of crime so terrible? Had not his own suspi cions and heated imagination mislead him. But there was the tom fragment of her even ing dress—unmistakable—and she would have passed through that gate under no ordinary circumstances, and the heel cap, he could ea sily ascertain whether it fitted her boot-heel and matched the other shoe heel-cap With Bath faction he saw through the open window his uncle and the Earl drive away to gether. Now would be his time. If alone in her room he conld force the in terview he wanted. Acting on the impulse he tapped at her chamber door. “Come in,” was the soft-toned answer. He entered boldly, knowing all he risked, hut he was armed with an almost positive conviction of her guilt, and knew she was in his power, and would not dare resent his en trance. Shs was sitting in a crimson-cushioned arm chair, with her bands clasped idly in her lap, looking surpassingly beautiful. She started violeutly when she saw who it was. With forced calmness he closed and botlted the door. She was speechless with suppressed fright. She knew he would not have committed such a breach under ordinary circumstance. She kn**w what it was that had brought him there to dare an entrance int i her private room. The door had been closed noiselessly, but in the intense silence the sound of the bolt as it shot softly into its socket seemed unearthly to these two so agitated. As noiselessly as he had entered Armand walked to the center of the room and paused, standing in front of her. Faint shadows fell upon her lace, and ev ery trace of natural aolor had faded out, leav ing it ghastly whit*. Yet, she sat quietly on her chair, her head leaned back against the damask cushions and her hands lj ing nerve lessly in her lap. “You do not ask the meaning of my strange intrusion,” he said, regarding her with a mer ciless smile. The sonnd of his voice, that smile, brought t) her instantly the fatal necessity of compos ure and acting bravely a part. “I was shocked, hence speechless, fearing some misfortune, some fatal accident had oc- cured. But I judge from your face that my ft are were groundless. She paused a second, scrutinizing him, then she flashed an indignant angry glance into his face, to meet only the same cold, bitter relent less smile. “Do you mean it an insult, sir?” “Your fears were not groundless. A very fatal accident has befallen one of the house hold.” “Who?” she asked faintly, feeling dizzy. \One of our guests—Adalbert Rosseberne.’ “What has happened to him?” Rallying all her forces she spoke louder, firmer, with a l#ok of innocent alarm. Death !” “Impossible! Only last night he was well and hearty." By some inner convulsive force she was enabbd, with a strange power, to keep up the semblance of innocence, of sympathy and concern. For an instant Armand was appalled at the daring step he had taken—the madness per haps, of accusing this 1 vely, innocent-looking high-born woman of so foul a deed. She saw the change come over his face, and her heart gave one quick, exultant bound. “How very sadl” she said, wiping fresh tears from her eyes., “I am grieved to hear of his sudden death.” In spite of herself the last word was alniost inarticulate. The strange cadence vibrated in Armand’s ears, and as if by divine intniti m it restored at once his con viction of tier guilt. “What a woman!” he muttered between closed teeth. She heard the mattered words, and again the blood left her face. Yet, with matchless self possession, she said quietly without a tremor: “You have not told me the cause of this sud den death. Poor youngman, to die so young.’ “ The cause! Ah, yes, the cause. I would like to know. I came to ask you the cause of his cruel fate.” He fixed his eyes upon her with an unmis takable accusation. “I am at a loss to comprehend you.” And a wave of a purplish hne palpitated an instant in her cheeks. “Do you know what your words mean, or were you merely thinking aloud and addressing an imaginary person?” “I know the full value of the meaning of my question, and am consciously aware that the proud lady of Lurleigh, to whom I address it, is a real blood and flesh existence.” At that moment his eyes swept the apart ment in a searching inquiry, scrutinizing every nook, and were at last arrestelbyan object almost concealed beneath the wardrobe. He darted forward and possessed himself with this article. It was the boot discolored with the greenish mud. He brought his trophy back to the stand near her, and, drawing out the brass cap, fitted it composedly to the heel. TTm laid it. a V f l nOT * drew from his pockets tS^WT a3c dagger, placing them beside the shoe; and last he smoothed out the piece of delicai e fabric torn from her evening dress, laying it also on the table with the other articles of condemnation. She watched him. Her eyes, dilating in ter ror, were fixed upon him with that strange fascination with which horror sometimes holds a human being. Slowly he lifted hii cold, stem face and said in a p isitive, denouncing tone: “Last night you met Adalbert Rossaberne, by appointment, on the river beside the caving bank. You attempted his life with this dirk; failing, you finished the execrable deed by pushing him backward over the bluff.” “He had seen it all,” was the rushing con viction. A low, frantic cry parted tier blue lips and she shook with terror. “I am at your mercy—im I lost?” It was spoken in a low, awful whisper. “Suchm*rcy as you had fur him. Do you understand?” “l’ity! As you hope for God’s mercy at the last day, p ty mo now.” She fell at his feet, embracing his knees fran tically. “Remember the horror, the agony to others in the dread exposure, and for the sake of the innocent spare me! Pity ! oh, have pity ! If you only knew what drove me to it!” “Why did you murder him?” “Because he would have ruined me.” “How ?” “By betraying a secret that would have hurled me from my position—dishonoring a noble family and wrecking the aappiness of the good old Earl, who loves me and trusts me. He hasn’t many years to live, and I would have spared him.” “Rossaberne was not mean. He was inca pable of malice or revenge on a woiian. What was it you demand* d of him?” “Silence—notning more.” “What was Rosseberne to you? Or, rather, what had been your relations with him?” “He was my husband I” Armand fell back, staggered, as if he, too, had received a treacherous blow from that fa tal dirk. “Impossible!” Armand uttered, trembling with indignant rage, thinking of his cousin Estelie’s attachment for Bert, which secret he had divined; and believing as he did that her love had been wooed, he now bitterly con demned Rosseberne for having concealed the fact of his having a living wife. “Bert Rosseberne a villain—my God! it can not be ! Woman, you are deceivii g me. How could such a deception profit you? Tell me it is not true.” “It is tree—I swear it 1” A NIGHT OF HORROR; AND Confession of a Suicide. By CHANCELLOR W. S. FLEMING, of Tennessee. No. 3. [to be continued.] DEATH OF LORD IDDESLEIGH. He Falls Dead While Making an Offi cial Visit in Downing Street. London, January 12.—Lord Iddesleigh is dead. He was better known to fame in Brit ish politics as Sir Staffort Northeote. London, January 12, 4 p. m.—Thus far but meagre particulars are known regarding the death of Lord Iddesleigh. It has been ascer tained, however, that he was taken suddenly ill this afternoon while in conference with Lord Salisbury, and death ensued shortly after. London, January 12.—It has now been as certained that Lord Iddesleigh wag not taken with his fatal illness while engaged in conver sation with Lord Salisbury, but tnat he had fainted while ascen ling the stairs of Lord Sal isbury’s official residence n Downing street as he was about to visit his lordship. He was taken into the prime minister’s room and almost instantly expired. London, January 12.—The physicians’ bul letin announces that Lord Iddesleigh died from heart disease, from which he has suffered slightly several years. A f«w moments before he was stricken he seemed to oe in perfect health aud spirits. H:s body still lies in Lord Salisbury’s office. London, January 12. The body of Lord Iddesleigh has been removed to the family residence in St. James Place. There wiU be no inquest, the doctors certifying that death resulted from failure of the heart s action. The Baltimore American says: Another “hitherto unpublished poem, by Poe,” has just been printed. It should have been called a hitherto unwritten poem by Poe. Edgar Alien Poe did not write poetry for pigeon holes. He wrote it for fame and for money, and he always had the good sense to get ail the pay he could out of his work. Upon laying him out, his pockets were searched. In them was foui d a photogi aph of his wife and one of his little girl, both dead —also, some ten dollars in silver, and a docu ment in manuscript of several pages, carefully wrapped up in a piece of brown paper. At first this was thonght to be a will, but upon examination it proved to be a paper having reference o his contemplated Buicidal act. It was deemed advisable to have tais paper read before any further proceedings were had. Consequently one of the company read it aloud, and, at my request, the manuscript, whish was written in a fair, legible hand, was delived to me. The following is a literal copy: confession of a suicide. To all whom if may concern :—Justice to my memory and a decent respect for tbe opinion of others induce me, in view of the tragic act 1 am about to consummate, to leave behind me a statement respecting myself, and of the mo tives which impel me to the act. I have no desire, and could have no purpose, to conceal the truth, or make any false statement with the cord, which is soon to cut short my mortal existence, lying at my feet. I am now forty years of age—was born and reared in the State of Georgia, received a fin ished education, taught school for several years after I came of age—married when I was thirty a young, lovely and affecionate wife, sufficiently accomplished to become a fit companion for myself. Not long after our marriage, desiring to live a quiet, retiree life in some healthy region, and learning of the cheapness of lands in this section of Tennessee —of the excellency of its water and its general healthfulness, I purchased this place soon af ter the birth of our first and only child. It required but little to supp >rt us, and I had still means enough, besid- s what I could re alize from my own manual labor. We had a few cows to supply us with milk, hogs to fur nish meat and sheep, what wool we needed. Then we had a library of choice works, not an extensive one, but comprising the works of our best authors. We had no very near neigh bors for social intercourse, but we were com pletely happy in our o vn society and that of our little girl, now nearly two years old. But I suppose I was too happy, and the day was fast approaching which was to dash my cup of pleasure with bitterness—to prostrate all my air castles in the dust and doom me to a life of sorrow. One day, in the early morning, my wife left the house, as I suppose, to gather berries or nuts, which were quite abundant, leaving our little Nellie with me. I was at the time en gaged in reading some entertaining book, and Nellie was prattling and playing with her toys as deeply interested upon them as I was upon my book. I thought nothing of my wife go ing to the woods, indeed I am not sure I no ticed it at all. It was no unusual thing, and consequent^ it made no impression on me. I expected her back in an hour or two. Oh! heart- rendering thought! She never returned again! I called, I searched every haunt she was ac customed to visit, but in vain. I thought she might have gone on a visit to some neighbor’s house, and wt uld return before nightrfaU. I waited her return in vain. I shouted her name till I was hoarse. Night now set in. It was sad—a horrible night. We lay down, little Nellie and I, to sleep, but, sleep ing or waking, she sobbed for “Mama” all night, and as for me, no sleep visited my eye-lids. Next morning at day light I was up, and taking little Nellie in my arms (as 1 had no one to leave her with), went from house to house, through the country, making inquiries and giving the alarm. By evening the whole country was aroased; search was made in every direction and along every road for miles; and this was c mtinued evey day f< r several successive days, but to no purpose. Not a word of her could be heard, nor a trace discovered. I finally settled down in silent, yet overwhelming sorrow. Little Nellie soon became accustomed to the situa tion. She was too young to appreciate her loss; she now looked and clung only to me. After a while I lea-no a it was whispered about that possibly my,wife may hare;elope<r with some other man. I despised, I scorned, I spit upon the very suspicion. It wa3 dan gerous for anyone to hint at such a thing to me or in my presence. I knew my wife too well to entertain such a thought for an instant. I knew she was pure as an angel of Heaven— that not an unchaste thought had ever crossed her breast. I could much more readily have believed, had any one suggested it, that she had been borne alive, on argel wings, to Heaven; but, as to her infidelity to me, perish the thought! Days, weeks, months, rolled by. These make time, and Time is a softener, a healer, a physician, whose surgery binds up the broken heart and whose balm soothes and heals the wounded spirit. My affections now *11 concentered on little Nellie with her sunny face, her rich golden hair and her laughing brown eyes. She was happy and her happi ness taug it me to be so, once more. I read and worked the little garden spot, while she in the warm, sunny days would sit in the shade of some branching tree, playing with her little toys, until overcome with sleep, she would make the grass her bed and thus court sweet sletp. But alas! alas! again was the iron to enter my soul, witliou. hope of heal ing. Little Nellie was just four years old, when an angel from the skies, passing by one night and touched by her innocence and love lines j, snatched her from my embrace and bore her in his arms from the sterile gat den of this rough world, to bloom in the Paradise of God. After this crushing blow I became a human wreck, not in the sense of dissipation, my life was aimless, all my purposes were broken off, my h ipes were forever blasted. I thought of nothing now tut wife and child and heaven. Sometimes in my day dreams, as I sat in the yard and looked towards NellieV little grave, but oftener in visions of the night, little Nellie would come to me, clad in purest white, a crown of gold upon her sunny brow, and with outstretched arms seeming to say, “Come, go with me, fapa, to my beautiful home in the skies.” I thought so much of all these vi-ions, that it grew to be a species of mania with me to go and join my dear child. I wandered about—roamed sometimes far from home, un til, as l though:, some people began to suspect me of insanity, and 1 heard that some regard ed me as a “crank.” They were a 1 in error. I had only ceased, in one sense, to live on earth, but lived, in my thoughts, alone in heaven. I often prayed, for I was and am a firm believer in the Christian religion and had long been living or trying to live a Christian life. I of en prayed God to remove me hence. The reader will be led to ask how I, a Christian could com emplate so unchristian an act as suicide. I endeavored to solve this most important question. I tried to reason myself into the belief that Goo’s boundless mercy could reach and cover my case. I am not laboring under mental aberration or insan ity. I know well enough what I am about to do. Oh! that God would call me hence and save me from this terrible alternation. Noth ing but an inordinate desire, an unconquerable longing to see and clasp my little darling to my bosom once more is prompting me to this deed. I know not whether my dear w fe is with the living or the dead, though it is now five or six years since her disappearance. But I know my little one, that was to me as a gleam of sunshine suddenly obscured by a passing cloud, is now a glorified angel. Is this longing of my heart, this intensity of affection any ev idence of mental aberration? Is it not most natural to love our offspring? And is nit this natural affection intensified by just such cir- cumstai ces as those in which her brief life was cast? If mine is a case of insanity, it did not have its origin in dissipation of any kind, for 1 never was in the least degree dissipated; nor from any financial troubles, for I never had any; nor from remorse of conscience for any deed or wrongful act committed by me in the past, for none such was ever committed so far as I have auy knowledge. Oh! merciful Father! I do not seek my own destruction because I am disgusted with life or hate my fellow-men, for I love them all because they are Thy creatures. Nor is it because I am weary of this brave world in which Thou hast seen fit to place me, for I love it with all its grand, sublime and beautiful scenery of mountains, lakes, seas, rivers and forests, aDd all these over-arched with the blue bending sky, studded with gol den suns, silvery moons and starry gems. Oh! Father of love and mercy, if this is guilt, for give me, oh! forgive me. To my fellowmen let me say: if my body should not be discovered, then of course it will crumble into dust, and be commingled with the dust of the frail crumbling tenement that now holds it, and so my disappearance be as mysterious as that of my poor, dear wife. But if my body or remains should be discov ered I desire it to be buried beside the grave of my precious iittle Nellie. Her tiny grave is in the north east corner of the yard or lot with a flat stone at the head and one at the f ot. The headstone has upon it this rude inscrip tion, "My little darling, Nellie." Should rnj wife survive me or ever r turn, I leave her this place, containing two hundred acres. [Signed] Henby Bernard. With the money found in his pocket a rude coffin was procured, a grave op«n«d as re quested close beside that of the liitle girl, his body decently interred. I placed a head and foot stone over the grave, and inscribec in rude letters upon the flat stone at the head. “A doting Father." . A short time alter these events, the skeleton of a wt man was found within a few hun dred yards of this old house. It * a y as it had been crushed by a large, fallen limb, and had escaped observation until the limb had so far decayed and rotted as to leave the bones exposed. Upon the bone of the third finger was found a ring, upon the in ner surface of which was inscribed her name and that of the suicider. The neighbors bu ried the remains beside her husband and child with the child between them. Tossing through that county some time after and learning of the disc >very of the lost wife, I turned aside from my way, visited the sad spot and inscribed upon the headstone of Ler grave, “A faithful wife and tender mother.” SENSATIONAL LIBEL SHIT. A Minister Wants Damages from Those Who Have Blackened His Character. Jackson, Tenn., January 13.—Papers were completed here to-day for what will be one of the most sensational suits ever brought in a Tennessee court. Rev. Dr. Frederick Howard, editor t f the True Baptist, and pastor of the Central Baptist church of this city, formerly of Atlanta, will bring a libel suit for $50,000 against fifteen leading citizens of Jackson, a prominent physician of Nashville, a leading jeweler of Memphis and four Dews papers, the Nashville Baptist, the Reflector at Chattanooga, the Tennessee Baptist at Mem phis, and the Fork Deer Blade of Jackson. These papers last spring published an article severely reflecting upon the charac er and past record of Dr. Howard whi :h was sign, d by the persons against whom the suit is brought. There are Rev. J. L. Vat-s, pastor of the First Baptist church of Jackson; Prof. George W. Jar- mon, H. C. Irby and F. J. Dupree, of the Southwestern Baptist University; Messrs. W D. Dupree, A. C. White, L. B. Shelton, R. B. Williams, B. O. Snyder, Finley Snyder, T. M. i Gates, J. R. Withers, C. A. Brown, W. R.: Heayner, Rev. E. B. McNeal and Dr. G. C. j Savage, of Nashville, and D. W. Hughes, of, Memphis. The article charged Dr. Howard with con duct unbecoming a minister, the specifications including swindling and forgery. It also al leges that he enlisted in the British navy under an assumed name, and left it under a cloud; that he collected money from his parishioners to send him c n a trip to Europe, and then pocketed the shekels and stayed at home. The suit will probably be tried at the July term of the circuit court. The witnesses will include ex-Gevernor McDaniel, of Georgia. The members of the Centrel Baptist church have formed a stock com jany to prosecute the suit to the end. Atlanta Purchasing Agency. Being so frequently called npon by parties at a distance to purchase goods aDd quote pri.-es in this market, I have decided to give it | my undivided attention, and I hereby solicit orders from all who may wish any assistance in the matter of buying or having goods made up in any particular style. My husband, Prof. W. B. Seals, whs has had large experience as a merchant, will gi 'e me the benefit of his personal aid and good taste in filling any order when needed. Address all communications to Mrs. W. B. Seals, 150 Whitehall street, Atlanta, G*. Professor Proctor, of Kentucky, State Geol ogist, and a man of distinguished learning, be lieves that there is enough iron near Bowling Green, Ky., to furnish fifty furnaces with ore for two hundred years. THE CAMELLIA. How a Favorite Flower Got Its Often Mispronounced Name. [Vick’s Magazine.] Now that the chrysanthemums are on ths wane, we are beginning to look to another Chi nese product, the camellia. We hear occasion, ally people speak of cameelia, but the real name was camelli, with camellus, camel or kamel as allaises. He was born, according to a statement by Father l’aque, at Berlin in Mo ravia, in 1661. He became a member of the order of Je uits and passed a large part of his life as a missionary in he Pbillipine Islands, where he died on May 2, 1706. At Manilla he established a free dispensary for the relief of the indigei t and sick and entered into commu nication with Ray and Petiver. In the Phillip- pines Cameili made rich collections and many drawings. These drawings are now in tbe possession of the Jesuit Co lege of Louvain, to which they were presented by Count Alfred Limminghe, who bought them at the sale of A. L. de uussieu. The eminent French bota nist attached much value to these drawings of Camelli, and attached many notes and com ments to them. The drawings of Camelli are said to be so beautifully executed as to resem- b e engravings rather than pen. and ink sketches. The botanical plates amount to two hundred and fifty-seven in number. , Facts Worth Knowing. In all diseases of the nasal mucous membrane the remedy used must be non irritating. The medical profession has been slow to learn this. Nothing satisfactory cm be accomplished with douches, snuffs, powders, syringes, astringents, or any similar application, because they are a'l irritating, do not thoroughly reach the affecte 1 surfaces and should be abandoned as worse than failures. A multitude of persons who have for years borne all the worry and pain that catarrh can afflict, testify to radical and permanent cures wrought by Elye’s Cream Balm. Miss Virginia Pelham Stuart, daughter of the brave Confederate general, was married a few days ago at Staunton, Va., to a gentle man of Norfolk, Mr. R. P. Waller. Handsome presents were received from Gen. Early, Gen. Cooke, Gen. Custis Lee, and Gen. Hunton, also from the Stewart Horse Guard of Rich mond, Va. Over ten thousand newspapers are received every week at Geo. P. Rowell & Co.’s Newspa per Advertising Bureau, 10 Spruce street. New York.They are all carefully examined;*correct record is kept of every advertisement ordered and the papers are then filed the dayol arrival, for further examination by customers. An or der amounting to a sing e dollar has the same careful attention as one of many theusand dol lars. Decollet. [Frank Leslie’s Weekly.] The French, with their usual conciseness, boil down the three words, low-necked dress es, into this one phrase, and it is a much bet ter description of that style of evening dress which has been fashionable for one hundred and fifty years, but which just now seems to be made the war-cry of the clergy. A woman’s neck and arms are made beauti ful, and there is no harm in showing them, as lias ieen the practice in polite society since the days of Cunigonde, if the woman herself is modest, and has good taste. Nothing can he made more vulgar than a high-necked gown and bare arms, and we see, by looking at the pictures of Sir Peter Lei f that what is called the Pompadour style of dress can be made au dacious in the extreme. The true fashion of low neck and short sleeves, which obtained in the days when Vic toria was a young bride, is as modest and as pretty a dress as any father could desire for his daughter. It is much more “dressy” for a dinner or a ball, the true decolletee, than any other style of dress. It has been the regula tion court 'dress for years at the most formal courts. Women can only go to court in Italy, Russia, Germany, and England, by special pernmsi n, in a high dress. There is neither imp opriety nor the slightest suggestion of in decency in a dress weli-fitted and properly cut dt colletef; but there can always be an air of impropriety given by the wearer to any dress vHiich is open at the throat, or, in fact, to one tightly closed, if the wearer is an unrefined person. It is the woman, and not the fashion, which makes propriety or impropriety. Wo see that in any collection of pictures. It is excessively bad taste in any woman to wear a dress cut too low. Nothing can be so unbecoming or so destructive of that Idea of fascination, against which tbe preacher de claims. Fashions come and go like the snow and the rain—no man knows why or where fore. If the preacher wishes to enforce moral ity he must strike at the principle which should underlie the dress—the refinement of mind and taste, which is the secret of true womanhood. An ill-fitting garment on a modest woman may give her, innocently, an immodest air; but her native good sense will soon teach her to cor rect that; while those unsexed women who de sire notoriety rather than fame, who wear un becomingly low-cut dresses at the opera, bear their punishment With their sins; f. r no man admires them, however much he may be pleas ed with a dress which is properly decolletee. The Joy of Receiving a Letter. [Chicago Journal.] “I have often wondered," said a Northside letter carrier lately, “what constitutes the charm of receiving a letter. If a person is ex pecting to receive by mail a ch&llenze to fight a duel, or the reply of his lady love to a prop osition of matrimony, or even a check for $25, I can understand how he should get excited about it. But I suppose that ninety-nine out of every hundred letters that pass through the mail are simply little speeches from friends such as could be listened to on the street with out the slightest interest or coi cern. But how anxious people are to receive these letters! You don’t know anything abou: it; you ought to be a letter carrier for about a week. Why, there are some people on my beat who, I really think, don’t do anything else but sit down and wait for me to come. They stand at the win dow or front gate and wait for me; they trem ble with anxiety as I approach; they groan and cower if I say ‘nothing to-day’, and if I hand them a letter they fly with it into the house as if they had picked up a pocket-book and were going off to a seen t place to inspect its con tents. All this makes me a very popular mai, 1 tell you. You see they associate me daily with the strongest hopes and the keenest en joyment of their lives. I am a sort of lion with, them; and to tell you the truth, I have a mate rimonial project in view very much above my station.” The Queen of Greece takes her airings in a carriage for which she paid §5,OIK). It was built for the triumphal entry of the Comte de Chambord into Paris, which never took place, owing to circumstances over which tbe Comte had no control. Horsford’s Acid Phosphate. Give Satisfactory Results. Dr. O. W. Weeks, Marion, O., says: “Its use is followed by results satisfactory both to pa tient and physician.” The two pictures to which Munkacsy owes his fame were “The Night Prowler” and “The Last Night of the Condemned.” The picture which is now attracting such world-wi le atten tion, is his “Christ before Pilate.” Munkacsy received the honor of knighthool from the Emperor Francis Joseph, of Austria, in recog nition of the genius displayed in that picture. A Guilty Sacrifice should never be made, but ambition and enter prise deserve reward. Wherever you are loca - ed you should write to Hallett & Co., Portlind, Maine, and learn about wirk that you can do and live at home earning thereby from $5 to $25 and upwards daily. Some have earned over $50 in a day All particulars free. Both sexes. All ages. Capital not needed; you are started free. All is new. Thoae who a.art at onse can not help rapidly making snug little fortunes. It is said that Miss Caldwell, the Washing ton young woman who gave $300,000 to the building fund of the proposed Roman Catho lic university in that city, will in a short time enter a Baltimore convent and join the sister hood. She came of age a few days ago, and after an elaborate dinner given to celebrate the event announced her intention to Cardinal Gibbons. Miss Caldwell is very pious, very pretty and very rich. “Consumption Can Be Cored.” Dr. J. S. Combs Owensville, Ohio, says: I hav* given Scott’s Emulsion of Cod Liver Oil with Hypophosphites, to four patients with better results than seemed possible with any remedy. All were hereditary cases of Lung disease, and advanced to that stage when Coughs, pain in the chest, frequf nt breathing, frequent pulse, fever and Emaciation. All these cases have iu- creased in weight from 16 to 28 lbs. , and are not now needing any medicine.” The will of the late Henry Gassett contains the following bequests: To the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Ani mals $2,000; $1,000 to the Massachusetts Agri cultural College 10 found a scholarship; $1,000 to the South Boston Blind Asylum; $1,000 each to die Home for Aged Men and the Asso ciation for the Relief of Aged| and Indigent Females, $500 to the Children’s Hospital; $1,- 000 to Harvard College, the income to be paid to the secretary of the class of 1834, for class purposes, and when no member of that class shall be living, tbe fund to form a scholarship to be called the class of 1834 scholarship; $1, 000 to the Harvard Musical Association, the income to be used for library purposes. Anxiety, Not Work, That Kills. [Sir John Lubbock in Pall Mall Gazette. The difficulty, however, is not perhaps so much to procure the requisites of happiness as to resist the assaults of care and sorrow. “The great man,” says Emerson, “is he who in the uiidst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweet ness the serenity of solitude.” How many of the troubles of life are insignificant in them selves and easily avoidable? It is not so much, in most cases, great sorrows, diseases or death, but rather “the iittle daily dyings” which cloud over the sunshine of life. We most of us give ourselves an immense amount of useless trouble, incumber ourselves, as it were, on the journey of life with a dead weight of unnecessary baggage. In that most de lightful fairy tale, “Alice in Wonderland,” the White Knight is described as having provided himself on starting for a journey with a vari ety of odds and ends, including a mouse-trap, in case he was troubled by mice at night, and a beehive, in case he came across a swarm of bees. To save ourselves Irom imaginary, or at auy rate problematical evils, we often incur real suffering. “The man,’’ said Epicurus, “who is not content with little is content with nothing.” There is an amusing passage in Hearne’s “Journey to the Mouth of the Coppermine River.” A few days after start ing he met a party of Indians, who annexed a great deal of his property, and all Hearue saya is, “The weight of our baggage being so much lightened, our next day’s journey was much pleasanter.” I ought, however, to add that the Indians broke up the philosophical instru ments, which, no doubt, were rather an incum brance. Do, then, your best and await calmly the result. It is anxiety, not work, which kills; it is work, not anxiety, which command* success. There is a Hindoo saying that the for tune of a man who sits, sits also; it sleeps when he sleeps, moves when he moves and rises when he rises. Anxiety, on the contrary, does more harm than good. Many seem to think that, in these days of competition and struggle for existence, life is more difficult and anxious than it used to be. On the contrary, I believe there never was a time when modest merit and patient industry were more sure to merit reward.” Europe has been honoring Fred Douglass. When in London he was intervie ved by the Daily News. In November the Paris Temps saw the long article of its English contempo rary and made many extracts from it. A few days later the Petit Parisien, a one-cent daily, devoted its whoie front pare to an account of Mr. Doagiass’s career. The Independence Beige copied the story from the Temps, and by this time it has probably been reprinted in half of the journals on the European continent. So Mr. Douglass may now consider that he has a newspaper introduction in the Old World. To many, however, he was already known through his autobiography, which has been translated into French, if not into other foreign languages, and is often seen on sale at the Paris bookstore!. JSl card. To all who are suffering from tho errors and Indiscretions of youth, nervous weakness, early decay, loss of manhood, &c., I will send a recipe that will cure you, FREE OF CHARGE. This great remedy was discovered by a missionary In South. America. Send a self-addressed envelope to the REV. Joseph T. INMAN, Station D, yew York City,
